Doc Savage: Glare of the Gorgon (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 19) (38 page)

“Now see here, my good fellow,” Ham started to say. He gave the cane a sharp prod.

The unsuspecting journalist fell backward over Monk Mayfair’s broad back and let out a squawk of surprise on his way to slamming the seat of his pants against hard pavement.

“You dandified diplomat!” Swangle gritted. “Why don’t you beat it back to where you came from?”

Before the legman could rise, the dapper lawyer popped him in the forehead with his cane’s heavy gold head, saying airily, “For that crack, I offer this ringing retort: Go peddle your papers.”

The back of Swangle’s head collided with concrete and he sprawled out like beached starfish, glassy-eyed and dazed.

Scrambling to his feet, Monk picked up the scribe’s hat and dropped it over his face, then stepped on the hat on his way to join Doc Savage in the taxi.

The cab departed, the sound of its accelerating engine drowning out the reporter’s shouted profanity.

“You were unnecessarily rough on that reporter,” remarked Doc Savage.

The hairy chemist only grinned. Ham Brooks kept a straight face. There was no further upbraiding. Evidently, Doc Savage’s disapproval did not run deep. He did not care for the press as a rule. The Fourth Estate was always digging into his background, trying to unearth his secrets. The bronze giant did not appreciate any of that. He preferred his privacy, for he had many enemies.

THEY called for Malcolm McLean at his home. After repeatedly pressing the doorbell and getting no response, Doc Savage picked the front door lock with ease.

The dwelling appeared to be empty, and a quick look around produced nothing of interest. The place showed no indication that anyone had been home in several days, but this impression was not conclusive in any way. McLean was a bachelor. The spotless appearance of the kitchen, combined with a sparse larder in the icebox, suggested that the owner took most of his meals outside his home.

“Bed is made,” reported Monk. “No tellin’ when it was slept in last.”

Ham came up from a tour of the basement, noting, “You would not suspect the fellow was a chemist. There is no chemical apparatus anywhere.”

To which Monk said, “Probably has a private set-up somewhere. Most guys don’t do their experimentin’ in their homes. Somethin’ might blow up and wreck the joint.”

Exiting, Doc said, “We will reclaim our speed plane at the airport.”

On the way, they detoured to Joe Shine’s residence and intercepted Long Tom, who was lugging a great glass humidor, in which there were a few fresh cigars and a great many black and green tobacco leaves.

Ham accepted this from the pallid electrical wizard. While Long Tom climbed into the machine, Monk grunted, “Some of this tobacco doesn’t look like it’s been properly cured.”

“Time enough to concern ourselves with that later,” said Doc.

LESS than an hour later, they were overflying the coal mine works, looking for a place to set their aircraft down.

Inasmuch as it was broad daylight, there was traffic. This presented a problem.

Doc Savage solved this dilemma by waiting for the traffic to thin, and putting the plane down on the same road upon which they had alighted the night before. This time, the bronze man kept the propellers turning and trundled the great plane into a grassy meadow that supported a sufficient number of trees to offer a modicum of shelter, but not enough to impede parking the aircraft.

All four men climbed out, and made their way to the colliery.

Bathed in sunshine, the place looked even more ramshackle than before. The unpainted board and batten sides of the coal-washing plant looked like something that had been abandoned by a race of giants.

Doc Savage first made a thorough search of the coal mine grounds, looking for any sign of an exit that might have been used to escape the cave-in. He found some signs of shafts that had been boarded up, but no indication that there was a usable way out of the mine other than the sealed main portal.

After that, the bronze giant led them to the impoundment, whose still surface looked scummy with a coating of pulverized coal dust that had been expelled from the mine collapse the previous evening.

Doc Savage approached the edge of the slurry pond. The former break in the surface had been obscured by the fresh fall of coal dust, but the bronze man found the spot he sought without difficulty. Quickly, he proceeded to divest himself of his street clothes, stripping off everything except the pair of black silk bathing trunks that he wore in lieu of underwear.

There was no splash as he entered the black water and sank beneath the dusty-looking surface. Doc was down a long time—an incredibly long time, searching for whatever lay in the foul water. He could hold his breath as long as a South Seas pearl diver, which is where he picked up the handy skill.

Finally, the bronze giant came up with the body of a man.

Monk’s eyes bugged out. “Blazes!” he squeaked.

The others crowded closer, the better to see the corpse, but kept a respectful distance.

Doc lay this cadaver down, then scrutinized the features. They were gray. The body had not been there for very long. There were no outward signs of decomposition. But it had been weighted down with iron fragments stuffed into every available pocket.

Having satisfied the grim suspicion which had brought him to investigate, the bronze man now donned his clothing after carefully drying his hair on the lower end of his trouser leg. The foulness of the water had darkened it. Such dampness as remained might be readily mistaken for mere dew, for Doc’s hair possessed the remarkable quality of shedding moisture in the manner of duck down.

Everyone gathered around to look at the dead man’s face. It was gray. It was almost impossibly gray. Not the ashen gray of the pallor of death, but a leaden hue that they had seen only once before in their lives.

“Malcolm McLean,” pronounced Long Tom Roberts.

“Undoubtedly,” seconded Ham Brooks.

“The poor cuss,” grunted Monk. “Imagine walkin’ around all your days like an animated cadaver, and ended up lookin’ even worse when your time came.”

Doc Savage knelt and examined the body, but said nothing.

The face of the gray cadaver had been distorted by its immersion in water, much the way that a man’s palm will shrivel up after he spends too long in a swimming pool. In this case, death made the condition permanent. Gullies and wrinkles marred his pinched features.

But in the general size and contours, it seemed to be the countenance of Malcolm McLean.

Doc Savage used one bronze hand to open first one, then the other eyelid, which revealed gray irises consistent with those of Malcolm McLean in life.

“Well, that’s the end of him,” said Long Tom without much sympathy. “I guess I’ll never get to hand him a sock in return for the clobbering he gave me.”

Doc Savage seemed on the verge of concluding his examination when the scalpel appeared in his metallic hand once more. This he inserted into the corpse’s right nostril.

The bronze man’s aides considered this simply an example of the methodical thoroughness with which the bronze man conducted his investigations. They were startled when the probing scalpel brought forth a gritty grating noise which set their teeth on edge.

“For cryin’ out loud!” exploded Monk. “His brain got turned to stone!”

Coming erect, Doc Savage said, “This is an intriguing development.”

Everyone looked expectantly at the bronze giant, but he offered no further comment. Nor did he bring up again the fact that he had seen a creature resembling the Medusa in the mine before its collapse.

Doc scrounged up some canvas from the coal-washing plant and used it to make a makeshift shroud for the body they had claimed from the impoundment. The bronze man carried this back to the waiting plane, and they were soon in the air with very little difficulty.

Once they were winging back to the Windy City, Monk Mayfair commented, “One thing’s for sure. That Dr. Rockwell won’t be able to revive
this
stiff. Malcolm McLean is as dead as Lazarus.”

“Miss Falcon will be disturbed to learn of this development,” mused Ham.

“Say nothing of this to Miss Falcon,” Doc cautioned. “Until we identify the body with certainty, we do not wish to compromise our investigation.”

Monk scratched his nubbin of a head. “Wait a minute! Ain’t we all agreed that that stiff back there is McLean?”

“The body appears to be that of the man who was struck down by the brain-petrifying influence which attacked Malcolm McLean at the scientific exposition,” stated Doc firmly. “But he does not appear to be McLean, although the resemblance is marked.”

Various ejaculations of astonishment were wrung from the lips of Doc Savage’s aides.

Long Tom wanted to know, “Is this the gray-faced one who was revived by Dr. Rockwell?”

“If it is,” said the bronze man, “the revival appears to have been short-lived.”

This remark threw the others into excited argument.

“This must mean that the real McLean is alive!” Ham exclaimed.

“Nothing of the sort,” gritted Long Tom. “It means—”

Monk eyed the slender genius of the juice skeptically. “You don’t know what it means. And neither do the rest of us! Admit it. It’s got us all buffaloed.”

Doc Savage volunteered nothing to this running commentary.

AN HOUR later, they were back in town and the newsboys were crying extra editions on many street corners.

“Wuxtra!”
they howled. “Read all about it! Mystery avenger comes to Chicago! Declares war on underworld.”

“What in the world is happening now?” snapped Ham.

Doc Savage pulled up to one corner and the dapper lawyer tossed a nickel out and received a fresh newspaper in return.

The scare heads were alarming.

UNKNOWN POWER DECLARES

WAR ON CHICAGO UNDERWORLD!

Letters were received at city newsrooms all over Chicago this morning. These letters were identical, investigation has shown. Text is as follows.

“For too long has the Windy City been a snake pit of vice and criminality. We hereby declare war on the Chicago underworld. It is in our power to Gorgonize the brains of men, and it is our will that the czars of the illicit rackets go to their graves without delay.

“Joe Shine was not the first. Nor will he be the last.

“Gorgones
Vincit Omnia.”

The letter was signed,
Medusa S. Euryale
.

The article continued:

Educated persons know that Medusa was the mythological figure of a snake-haired woman whose gaze was so horrible that mortal men were turned to stone.

Police have discovered an outline suggestive of the viper-headed monster at the home of the late Joe Shine, whom celebrated physician Warner Rockwell is at this very hour attempting to bring back from the netherworld.

It remains to be seen whether this can be done, or if Rockwell will fail. But at this hour it looks as if the doctor’s practice is about to pick up in a major way.

Ham read all of this aloud, concluding with, “It appears that, contrary to our expectations, this Medusa plague is not winding down.”

“So it would seem,” stated Doc, pushing the machine back into traffic. “It may only now be getting underway in earnest.”

Doc Savage’s men all began asking questions at once, and the questions overlapped one another in such a way that none stood out.

This did not matter, for the bronze giant maintained a brittle silence as he drove in the direction of Mercy General Hospital, as was his custom when he did not wish to divulge his thought processes.

Chapter XXXVII

DEMONSTRATION

DR. WARNER ROCKWELL wore a glum mien when they found him at Mercy General Hospital. The craggy-featured physician had repaired to his private office.

This expression told them what they needed to know before the words came out of his mouth.

“I am afraid that my procedure did not accomplish anything in the case of the two men brought to me today,” he said in a resigned voice. “The gangster known as Joseph Shine and his attorney have already been removed to the city morgue. There was nothing I could do. From what you describe, Savage, both victims were subjected to a greater concentration of the noxious fumes that resulted in the calcification of their brains than was Malcolm McLean.”

Doc Savage regarded the dejected physician steadily.

“You suspected that might be the outcome,” stated Doc without emotion.

Rockwell sighed heavily. “And I fear that I was correct.”

“Are you now ready to reveal your process?”

Rockwell shook his head firmly, saying, “I am not. That was not a fair test of the process. I have proven that it works, but I must now prove that it will work on the other victims.”

Monk growled, “As far as I can see, you ain’t proved nothin’. No one’s seen hide nor hair of Malcolm McLean since you released him.”

“Why, I spoke with McLean just a few hours ago. He sounded hale and hearty. And grateful, I might add.”

No one said anything to that.

Ham Brooks waved an extra edition of an afternoon newspaper and asked, “Have you seen the latest headlines?”

“I have not. I have been reviewing the events of the last two days.”

The dapper lawyer tossed the newspaper on the desk, and suggested, “You might wish to read this.”

Picking up the folded sheet, Dr. Rockwell absorbed the headline and began scanning the article beneath, outlining the campaign against crime threatened by the enigmatic Medusa S. Euryale.

The medical man seemed at a loss for words, then he murmured, “I may have my work cut out for me.”

“No doubt,” said Ham. “The only positive thing is that this Medusa seems to desire the eradication of Chicago’s underworld.”

Rockwell looked up and his unblinking eyes bored into them all unflinchingly.